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“Man, aye!” said Erchie, “that’s the warst o’ Gleska; there’s nae life in’t – naethin’ daein’. Ye should try yer hand at takin’ oot the wife for a walk, jist for the novelty o’ the thing.”
“Catch me!” said Duffy. “She wad see ower mony things in the shop windows she was needin’. I was jist wonderin’ whether I wad buy a ‘Weekly Mail’ or gang to the fitba’ match at Parkheid.”
Erchie looked pityingly at him. “A fitba’ match!” said he. “Whit’s the use o’ gaun to a fitba’ match when ye can see a’ aboot it in the late edeetion? Forbye, a fitba’ match doesna improve the mind; it’s only sport. I’ll tell ye whit I’ll dae wi’ ye if ye’re game. I’ll tak’ ye to the Art Institute; the minister gied me twa tickets. Awa’ and put on your collar and I’ll wait here on ye.”
“Do ye need a collar for the gallery?” asked Duffy, who thought the Art Institute was a music-hall. On this point Erchie set him right, and ten minutes later, with a collar whose rough edges rasped his neck and made him unhappy, he was on his way to Sauchiehall Street.
The band was playing a waltz tune as they entered the Institute.
“Mind, I’m no’ on for ony dancin’,” Duffy explained. “I canna be bothered dancin’.”
“There’s naebody gaun to ask ye to dance,” said Erchie. “Do you think there couldna be a baun’ playin’ withoot dancin’? It’s jist here to cod a lot o’ folk into the notion that they can be cheery enough in a place o’ the kind in spite o’ the pictures. And ye can get aifternoon tea here, too.”
“I could be daein’ wi’ a gless o’ beer,” said Duffy.
“No. They’re no’ that length yet,” Erchie explained. “There’s only the tea. The mair determined lovers o’ the Fine Arts can dae the hale show in an aifternoon noo wi’ the help o’ a cup o’ tea, so that they needna come back again. It’s a great savin’. They used to hae to gang hame for their tea afore, and whiles they never got back. The Institute wasna popular in thae days; it was that quate and secluded that if a chap had done onything wrang and the detectives were efter him he took a season ticket, and spent a’ his days here. Noo, ye can see for yersel’ the place is gaun like an inn. That’s the effect o’ the baun’ and the aifternoon tea. If they added a baby incubator to the attractions the same’s they hae in the East-End Exhibeetion, they would need the Fire Brigade wi’ a hose to keep the croods oot. Ye hae nae idea o’ the fascination Art has for the people o’ Gleska if they’re no’ driven to’t.”
“My jove!” exclaimed Duffy, at the sight of the first gallery. “Whit a lot o’ pictures! There’ll be a pile o’ money in a place o’ this kind. Hiv they no water-shoot, or a shootin’ jungle, or onything lively like that?”
“Man, ye’re awfu’ common, whiles, Duffy,” said Erchie. “I’m fear’t I wasted my ticket on ye. This is no’ an ordinary show for haein’ fun at; it’s for enlargin’ the mind, openin’ the e’en to the beauties o’ nature, and sellin’ pictures.”
“Are they a’ for sale?” asked Duffy, looking with great intentness at a foggy impression by Sidaner, the French artist.
“No’ the hale o’ them; there’s some on lend.”
“I could hae lent them a topper,” said Duffy, – “faur aheid o’ onything here. It’s a drawin’ o’ a horse I yince had in my first lorry; it was pented for me by a penter that lodged above us, and had a great name for signboards. It cost me nearly a pound wan wye or anither, though I provided the pent mysel’.”
“Ay, Art’s a costly thing,” said Erchie. “Ye’ll seldom get a good picture under a pound. It’s no’ athegither the pent, it’s the layin’ o’t on by hand.”
“This yin’s done by hand onywye,” said Duffy, pointing to the foggy impression by Sidaner. “It’s awfu’ like as if somebody had done it themsel’s in their spare time.”
“You and me’s no’ judges o’ that sort o’ thing,” said Erchie. “Maybe it’s no’ near so bad as it looks.”
“Ye see,” Erchie went on, “Art pentin’s a tred by itsel’. There used to be hardly ony picture-penters in Gleska; it was a’ shipbuildin’ and calanderin’, whitever that is, and chemical works that needed big lums. When a Gleska man did a guid stroke o’ business on the Stock Exchange, or had money left him in thae days, and his wife wanted a present, he had his photy-graph ta’en big size, ile-coloured by hand. It was gey like him, the photygraph, and so everybody kent it wasna the rale Art. Folk got rich that quick in Gleska, and had sae much money to spend, that the photygraphers couldna keep up wi’ the’demand, and then the hand-pentin’ chaps began to open works in different pairts o’ the city. Ye’ll hardly gang into a hoose noo whaur ye’ll no’ see the guidman’s picture in ile, and it micht be bilin’ ile sometimes, judgin’ from the agony in his face.”
“My jove!” said Duffy, “is it sore to get done that wye?”
“Sore!” replied Erchie; “no, nor sore. At least, no’ that awfu’ sore. They wadna need to dae’t unless they liked. When maistly a’ the weel-aff Gleska folk had got their photygraphs done and then de’ed, the penters had to start the landscape brench o’ the business. Them’s landscapes a’ roon’ aboot” – and Erchie gave his arm a comprehensive sweep to suggest all the walls.
“They must be pretty smert chaps that does them,” said Duffy. “I wish I had gone in for the pentin’ mysel’; it’s cleaner nor the coals. Dae ye hae to serve your time?”
“No, nor time; ye can see for yersel’ that it’s jist a kind o’ knack like poetry – or waitin’. And the plant doesna cost much; a’ ye need to start wi’s paper, brushes, pent, and a saft hat.”
“A saft hat!”
“Ay; a saft hat’s the sure sign o’ an artist. I ken hunners o’ them; Gleska’s fair hotchin’ wi’ artists. If the Cairters’ Trip wasna abolished, ye wad see the artists’ tred union walkin’ oot wi’ the rest o’ them.”
The two friends went conscientiously round the rooms, Erchie expounding on the dimensions, frames, and literary merits of the pictures, Duffy a patient, humble student, sometime’s bewildered at the less obvious transcripts of nature and life pointed out to him.
“Is there much mair o’ this to see?” he asked at last, after having gone through the fourth gallery. “I’m gettin’ dizzy. Could we no’ hae something at the tea bar if we gied them a tip? They micht send oot for’t. Or we micht get a pass-oot check.”
“Mair to see!” exclaimed Erchie. “Ye’re awfu’ easy made dizzy! The like o’ you wad faur raither be oot skreichin’ yer heid aff at the fitba’ match at Parkheid, instead o’ improvin’ the mind here. Ye canna get onything at the tea place but jist tea, I’m tellin’ ye, and there’s nae pass-oot checks. They ken better nor to gie ye pass-oot checks; haulf o’ your kind wad never come back again if yince ye escaped.”
“My jove!” said Duffy, suddenly, “here’s a corker!” and he indicated a rather peculiar drawing with a lady artist’s name attached to it.
Erchie himself was staggered. “It’s ca’d ‘The Sleeper’ in the catalogue,” said he. “It’s a wumman, and her dozin’. The leddy that pented it wasna ower lavish wi’ her pent. That’s whit they ca’ New Art, Duffy; it jist shows ye whit weemen can dae if ye let them.”
“And dae ye tell me there’s weemen penters!” asked Duffy in astonishment.
“Of course there’s weemen penters.”
“And hoo dae they get up and doon lethers?” asked Duffy.
“I’m tellin’ ye Art pentin’s a brench by itsel’,” said Erchie. “The lady Art penters divna pent windows and rhones and hooses; they bash brass, and hack wud, and draw pictures.”
“And can they mak’ a livin’ at that?”
“Whiles. And whiles their paw helps.”
“My jove!” said Duffy, bewildered.
“We’ll gang on to the next room noo,” said Erchie.
“I wad raither come back some ither day,” said Duffy. “I’m enjoyin’ this fine, but I promised the wife I wad be hame early for my tea.” And together they hastily made an exit into Sauchie-hall Street.
“I wonder wha won the semi-final at Parkheid,” said Duffy. “We’ll awa’ doon the toon and see; whit’s the use o’ hurryin’ hame?”
XXVI THE PROBATIONARY GHOST
One day I observed Erchie going off the pavement rather than walk under a ladder.
“And are you superstitious too?” I asked him, surprised at this unsuspected trait in a character so generally sensible.
“I don’t care whither ye ca’t supresteetion or no,” he replied, “but walkin’ under lethers is a gey chancy thing; and there’s mony a chancy thing, and I’m neither that young nor that weel aff that I can afford to be takin’ ony risks.”
“Dear me!” I said; “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that you believed in ghosts.”
“Do I no’?” he answered. “And guid reason for’t! Did I no’ yince see yin? It was the time I had the rheumatic fever, when we were stayin’ in Garnethill. I was jist gettin’ better, and sittin’ up a wee while in the evenin’ to air the bed, and Jinnet was oot for a message. The nicht was wild and wet, and the win’ was daudin’ awa’ at the window like onything, and I was feelin’ gey eerie, and wearyin’ for the wife to come back. I was listenin’ for her fit on the stair, when the ootside door opens, and in a second there was a chap at the kitchen door.
“‘Come in if your feet’s clean,’ says I, pretty snappy. ‘Seein’ ye’ve made sae free wi’ the ae door ye needna mak’ ony ceremony wi’ this ane.’ I heard the hinges screechin’, but naebody cam’ in, and I looks roon’ frae where I was sittin’ wi’ a blanket roond me at the fire, and there was the ghost keekin’ in. He was a wee nyaf o’ a thing, wi’ a Paisley whisker, a face no bigger than a Geneva watch, a nickerbocker suit on, Rab Roy tartan tops to his gowfin’ stockings, and pot-bellied to the bargain. I kent fine he was a ghost at the first gae-aff.
“‘It’s you,’ says I. ‘Come in and gies yer crack till Jinnet comes. Losh, it’s no’ a nicht for stravaigin’.’
“He cam’ glidin’ in withoot makin’ ony soond at a’, and sat doon on a chair.
“‘Ye’re no’ feared,’ says he, tryin’ to gnash his teeth, and makin’ a puir job o’t, for they were maistly artifeecial.
“‘Feared?’ says I. ‘No’ me! I never did onybody ony hairm that wad mak’ it worth ony ghost’s while to meddle wi’ me. A flet fit but a warm hert.’
“‘We’ll see aboot that,’ says he, as cocky as onything. ‘I had a fine job findin’ oot where ye were. Fancy me gaun awa’ doon to Millport on a nicht like this to haunt ye, and findin’ that ye had flitted up here last term.’ And he begood to gnash his teeth again.
“‘Millport!’ says I. ‘Man! I was never near the place, and I’ve lived in this hoose for seventeen year, and brocht up a faimily in’t.’
“I never seen a ghost mair vexed than he was when I tellt him that. His jaw fell; he was nearly greetin’.
“‘Whit’s yer name?’ he asked.
“‘Erchie MacPherson, and I’m no’ ashamed o’t. Its no’ in ony grocers’ nor tylers’ books that I ken o’, and if I ever murdered ony weans or onything o’ that sort, it must hae been when I was sleepin’. I doot, my man, ye’re up the wrang close.’
“The ghost begood to swear. Oh my! such swearin’. I never listened to the bate o’t. There was fancy words in’t I never heard in a’ my life, and I’ve kent a wheen o’ cairters.
“‘That’s jist like them,’ says he. ‘They tellt me Millport; and efter I couldna find the man I was wantin’ at Millport, I was tellt it was here, No. 16 Buccleuch Street. Fancy me bungin’ awa’ through the air on a nicht like this! My nicker-bockers is fair stickin’ to my knees wi’ wet.’
“‘Peter,’ says I (of course I didna ken his richt name, but I thocht I wad be nice wi’ the chap see-in’ he had made such a mistake), ‘Peter,’ said I, ‘ye’re needin’ yer specs on. This is no’ No. 16, it’s number 18, and I think the man ye maun be lookin’ for is Jeckson, that canvasses for the sewin’-machines. He came here last term frae aboot Millport. If he’s done ony hairm to ony-body in his past life – murdered a wife, and buried her under the hearth-stane or ony daft-like thing o’ that sort, – I’m no’ wantin’ to hear onything aboot it, for he’s a guid enough neebour, has twa bonny wee weans, comes hame regular to his tea, and gangs to the kirk wi’ his wife. He’s been teetotal ever since he came here. Gie the chap a chance!’
“‘Jeckson!’ said the ghost, and whips oot a wee book. ‘That’s the very man!’ said he. ‘Man! is’t no’ aggravatin’? Here’s me skooshin’ up and doon the coast wi’ my thin flannels on lookin’ for him, and him toastin’ his taes at a fire in Buccleuch Street! Jist you wait. It shows ye the wye the books in oor place is kept. If the office was richt up-to-date, Jeckson wadna be flitted ten meenutes when his new address wad be marked doon. No wonder the Americans is batin’ us! Weel, it’s no’ my faut if I’m up the wrang close, and I’m no’ gaun to start the job the nicht. I’m far ower cauld.’
“There was an empty gless and a teaspoon on the dresser, for Jinnet had been giein’ me a drap toddy afore she gaed oot. The ghost ‘sat doon on a chair and looked at the gless.
“‘Could ye save a life?’ said he.
“‘Whit wad be the use o’ giein’ it to you, Peter?’ I asked him; ‘ye havena ony inside, seein’ ye’re a ghost.’
“Have I no’?’ says he. ‘Jist try me.’ So I pointed to the press, and he took oot the decanter as smert’s ye like and helped himsel’.
“He turned oot a rale nice chap in spite o’ his tred, and he gave me a’ the oots and ins o’t. ‘I’ve nae luck’ he said. ‘It’s my first job at the hauntin’, and I’ve made a kind o’ botch o’t, though it’s no’ my faut. I’m a probationer; jist on my trial, like yin o’ thae U.F. ministers. Maybe ye think it’s easy gettin’ a haunter’s job; but I’m tellin’ ye it’s no’ that easy, and when ye get it, it’s wark that tak’s it oot o’ ye. There’s mair gangs in for the job there than for the Ceevil Service here, and the jobs go to compeetition. “Ye hae’ to pass an examination, and ye hae nae chance o’ gettin’ yin if ye divna mak? mair nor ninety per cent o’ points. Mind ye, there’s mair than jist plain ghost-wark! It used to be, in the auld days, that a haunter wad be sent to dae onything, – to rattle chains, or gie ye the clammy hand, or be a blood-curdler.
Nooadays there’s half a dizzen different kinds o’ haunters. I’m a blood-curdler mysel’,’ and he gied a skreich that nearly broke a’ the delf on the dresser.
‘Nane o’ that!’ says I, no’ very weel pleased. ‘Ye’ll hae the neebours doon on us. Forbye, there’s naething patent aboot that sort o’ skreich. Duffy the coalman could dae better himsel’. That’s no’ the wye a dacent ghost should cairry on in ony hoose whaur he’s gettin’ a dram.’
“‘Excuse me,’ he says; ‘it’s the dram that’s ta’en my heid. Ye see, I’m no’ used to’t. It’s mony a day since I had yin.’
“‘Are they that strict yonder?’ I asked.
“‘Strict’s no’ the word for’t! If a blood-curdler on probation was kent to gang to his work wi’ the smell o’ drink aff him, he wad lose his job:’ and he helped himsel’ to anither dram.
“‘Weel, ye’re no’ blate ony wye,’ says I.
“‘Blate! Catch me,’ says he. ‘I wadna need to be blate at this tred, I’m tellin’ ye. Jist you think o’ the kind o’ customers we hae to dale wi’! They wad sooner see a tax-collector comin’ into their hooses than yin o’ us chaps. There’s some hooses ye hae to gang to work in where it’s easy. I ken a ghost that’s been fifteen years on the same job, and gettin’ fat on’t. He has the name o’ bein’ the best white-sheet ghost in the Depairt-men’, and he’s stationed in an auld castle up aboot the Hielan’s, a job he got because he had the Gaelic. He made it sae hot for the folk, walkin’ aboot their bedrooms at a’ ‘oors o’ the nicht, that naebody’ll stay in the place but himsel’ and an auld deaf and dumb housekeeper. There’s naething for him to dae, so he can lie in his bed a’ nicht and no’ bother himsel’ aboot onything. It’s a very different thing wi’ anither chap I ken – a chain-clanker in England. He has to drag ten yairds o’ heavy chain up and doon stairs every nicht; and it’s no easy job, I’m tellin’ ye, wi’ the folk the hoose belang to pappin’ things and shootin’ at whaur they think the soond comes frae. Oh ay! there’s a great run on the best jobs. My ain ambeetion is to be in the clammy-hand brench o’ the business in some quate wee place at the coast. I hae my eye on a likely thing at Rothesay. Of course the clammy hand’s no’ a very nice occupation for the winter, but this is a hoose that’s shut up in the winter, and I wad only hae to work it in the fine summer nichts.’
“‘Hoo dae ye dae the clammy hand, Peter?’ I asked him, and he jist winked.
“‘If I was tellin’ ye that,’ says he, ‘ye wad be as wise as mysel’. Never you mind, MacPherson; ask me nae questions and I’ll tell ye nae lees. Weel, as I was sayin’, I aye had a notion o’ a quate job at the coast. I couldna stand Gleska; there’s, such a rush aboot it, and sae mony stairs to sclim, and pianos aye playin’ next door. And the accent’s awfu’! Gie me a nice wee country hoose whaur somebody hanged himsel’, wi’ roses on the wa’, and dandelions in the front plot. But there’s plenty o’ us lookin’ efter jobs o’ that sort, – far ower mony; and it’s generally them wi’ influence that gets them at the hinder-end.’
“‘That’s whit everybody says aboot the situations here, Peter,’ says I. ‘If they’re nae use at their tred they talk a lot aboot influence. I’m thinkin’ ye wad soon get a job at the coast if ye were fit for’t.’
“He was the shortest-tempered ghost ever I seen. I had nae sooner said that than he gied anither skreich, and disappeared in a blue lowe wi’ an awfu’ smell o’ brimstone.
“‘Come oot o’ that!’ I says to him; ‘I can see the taps o’ yer gowfin’ stockings;’ and at that he gied a kind o’ shamed lauch and was sittin’ in the chair again, helpin’ himsel’ to anither dram.
“‘I’ll tell ye whit I’ll dae wi’ ye,’ said he. ‘I’ll no’ mind aboot Jeckson at a’, but I’ll hing aboot your hoose for a week or a fortnight, and they’ll never ken at the office. I canna think to gang into Jeckson’s hoose if he’s a teetotaler. Teetotalers is aye that – that – that teetotal. I wad never get sittin’ doon in Jeckson’s to a jovial gless like this.’
“‘Ye’re far ower jovial for me,’ says I. ‘See’s that decanter,’ and I took it frae him. ‘I’m awfu’ prood to see ye, but ye better be slidin’ afore her ladyship the wife comes in, or she’ll put the hems on ye. She canna stand ghosts.’
“‘Michty!’ said he, ‘have ye a wife?’
“‘The nicest wee wife in Gleska,’ said I. ‘And I wish to goodness she was hame, for I’m awfu’ tired.’
“‘Then I’m no’ playin’,’ said the ghost. ‘I’ll awa’ roon’ and gie Jeckson a cry afore he gangs to his bed.’
“He grabbed the decanter and emptied it into the tumbler, gied ae gulp, and anither gnash to his teeth, and went awa’ withoot sae much as ‘thenk ye.’
“Jinnet’s step was on the stair. Fine I kent it! Man, that’s the smertest wee wumman!
“‘There’s nae livin’ in this hoose wi’ ghosts,’ says I to her when she cam’ in, and she had some grapes for me.
“‘Is there no’, Erchie?’ she said, lookin’ at me, ‘my ain puir auld man!’
“‘Look at that decanter,’ says I; ‘the rascal emptied it.’
“‘Hoots! the decanter’s a’ richt,’ says she, takin’t frae the press; and as shair’s onything, there wasna a drap’ oot o’t!
“And she put me to my bed there and then.”
XXVII JINNET’S CHRISTMAS SHOPPING
Jinnet had money in the Savings Bank. Erchie used to chuckle when some neighbour had gone out to whom she had casually mentioned the fact and say, “That’s it, Jinnet, you be bragging o’ your deposits like that, and they’ll be thinking I mairried ye for your fortune.” But the truth was that when their savings at first were lodged in Erchie’s name, they had an unfortunate way of disappearing without Jinnet’s knowledge, and it was to protect himself from himself that the husband finally opened the account in the name of his wife.
The first day she went to the bank with money it was with no little trepidation. “Maybe they’ll no’ tak’ sae much as twenty-wan pounds,” she suggested; “it’s a guid pickle money to hae the responsibility o’.”
“Ay, and gled to get it!” he replied. “That’s whit they’re there for. If it was twice twenty-wan they wad mak’ room for’t, even if they had to shift forrit the coonter. Ye hae nae idea o’ the dacency o’ thae banks!”
“But whit if the bank was to burst?” said Jinnet. “Lots o’ folk losses their money wi’ banks burstin’, and hae to go on the Board a’ the rest o’ their days.”
“Burst!” laughed Erchie. “Man! ye wad think it was a kitchen biler ye were talkin’ aboot. It’ll no’ burst wi’ a’ we’ll put into’t, I’ll warrant ye.”
“Will ye hae to pay them much for takin’ care o’t?” she asked, still dubious of these immense financial operations.
Erchie laughed till the tears ran into his tea. “Oh, my!” said he, “but ye’re the caution! It’s them that pays you. If ye leave the twenty-wan pound in for a twelvemonth, they’ll gie ye something like twenty-wan pound ten shillin’s when ye gang to lift it.”
This troubled Tennet worse than ever. “It’s rale nice o’ them,” said she, “but I’m no’ needin’ their ten shillin’s; we’re no’ that faur doon in the warld, and it’s like enough they wad just be takin’ it aff some ither puir cratur.”
But eventually the money was lodged in Jinnet’s name. She used to take out her bank-book and examine it once a-week, to make sure, as she said, “the money was still there,” a proceeding at which Erchie would wink to himself, and with difficulty restrain his laughter.
On Saturday, Jinnet expressed a wish that she had some of her money to make some purchases for Christmas and the New Year.
“Weel,” said her husband, “whit’s to hinder ye gaun to the bank and liftin’ a pound or twa?”
Her face turned white at the very thought. “Me!” she cried. “I wadna ask for money at that bank if I was stervin’.”
“But, bless my sowl! it’s yer ain money; they canna keep ye frae gettin’ it if ye want it,” said her husband.
“I’m no carin’,” Jinnet protested. “I divna like to ask for’t, and them maybe busy. Perhaps the puir crat’urs havena got it to spare the noo.”
“Weel, they can jist send oot for a wee lend o’t frae somebody they ken,” said Erchie. “It’s your money, and if ye want ony o’t oot they must gie ye’t; that’s whit banks is for.”
“Will you no’ gang for the twa pound ten for me, and I’ll mak’ something nice and tasty for your tea the nicht?” said Jinnet coaxingly; but Erchie had his own way of teaching Jinnet self-confidence, and refused. “They wadna gie’t to me without a lot o’ palaver,” he explained; “ye’ll jist hae to gang yersel’. Speak nice to them, and they’ll no’ touch ye. There hasna been a customer murdered in a Gleska bank for years and years.” He explained the process she was to follow, and she set out with great misgivings.
“Weel, hoo did ye get on?” Erchie asked her when she returned. “Ye got the money onywye, – I can see by the wye yer niefs shut.”
“Oh, Erchie!” she cried hysterically, and dropped into a chair. “I wad never mak’ a man o’ business. My hert’s in a palpitation – jist fair stottin’. I peety them that has the bother o’ muckle money.”
“Myjove!” said Erchie in alarm, “were they no’ nice to ye? If they werena nice and ceevil, I’ll – I’ll tak’ oot every penny, and then they’ll see whaur they are.”
“Oh, they were as nice as they could be,” Jinnet hurried to explain. “And I got the money a’ richt. But oh! I was that put-aboot. Thon slippy floor aye frichtens me, and the gentlemen inside the coonter in their wee cages like Duffy’s goldy – ”
“Goldies – ay, that’s jist whit they are,” said Erchie. “It’s a fine bird a goldie if ye get a guid yin; it can whustle better nor a canary.”
“ – like Duffy’s goldie, and that rale weel put-on. Each o’ them had as muckle gold and silver aboot him as wad fill a bakie. I nearly fented when yin o’ them spoke to me awfu’ Englified, and askit whit he could dae for me the day.
“‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I see ye’re throng; I’ll can come back anither time,’ and I was makin’ for the door when he cried me back, and said he wasna that throng but that he wad be gled to dae onything he could for me. I thocht he wad gie me the money wi’ a grudge when he found I wanted twa pound ten in silver, but he coonted it oot like lichtnin’, and bangs it foment me. A rale obleegin’ lad he was, but no’ lookin’ awfu’ strong; I think I’ll knit him a pair o’ warm socks or a muffler for his New Year.”
“Ye’re a rale divert, Jinnet!” said Erchie.
“I jist picked up the money withoot coontin’ it and turned to gang awa’. ‘Hold on, Mistress MacPherson,’ he cries; ‘ye’ll be as weel to coont yer siller afore ye leave the bank in case I’m cheatin’ ye,’ and my face got as red’s the fire. ‘I wadna hae the cheek to doot ye efter seein’ ye coontin’t yersel’,’ I tellt him, and cam’ awa’. But I went up a close further along the street and coonted it.”